Cooper turns from where he’s talking with our mom and smiles in our direction. Though much about Coop has changed in the past four years, his smile has not. It still exposes one dimple, and his cheeks are still slightly rounded, too soft for being twenty-one. His eyes are a dark brown that matches his finger-length hair, which is swept away from his face in a tidy mess. Once, Cooper was gangly and short, but now, he still has a few inches on me even when I wear heels. And while he’s still on the thinner side, defined muscles cord their way over his body—which we saw firsthand all summer in our pool.
“Hey,” Cooper says, waving.
“Hey, Cooper.” Dad moves closer, greeting him with a handshake and starts confirming our travel plans, but I don’t hear the conversation because Tyler Banks steps forward. His disheveled dark blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and rounded lips that hide his emotions nearly as well as his silence. It’s like he read a manual on how to be broody and decided to master the skill set.
“Mom, this is Tyler Banks,” Vanessa says, extending a manicured hand toward Tyler, who surprises me by flexing a small smile and shaking her hand.
“Pleasure to meet you.” His British accent—which is notorious at Brighton and likely all of Miami where he’s from—makes our mom practically swoon. I’m pretty sure Dad’s even developing a man-crush as he stares at Tyler’s car and biceps and starts recounting Brighton’s undefeated football season last year and his own glory days from Brighton.
“That’s a nice car you drive,” Dad says when Tyler moves to help with our bags.
Tyler glimpses over his shoulder, his gaze stopping at me for only a second before meeting the target of his Tesla. I’d argue that it’s elaborate and screams ostentatious, but Vanessa is starting to tell Cooper which bags she’s going to need access to and which can be buried, and Mom’s asking me about our hotel room confirmation for tonight.
“I didn’t make them, remember?” I ask, awkwardness edging its way into my voice and making my discomfort grow rapidly. I should have been concerned when Nessie assured me she and Cooper had it all taken care of—should have been more suspicious when I asked for details, and she gave me blanket answers about Cooper having gotten great deals through a friend. I hadn’t considered that friend was Tyler Banks, heir to one of the largest hotel chains in America. A British playboy who grew up bouncing between continents and leaving a trail of tabloid stories and broken hearts in his wake.
Nessie’s right, I don’t know Tyler Banks, but I also have no desire to know him. Guys like him promise nothing but bad judgment and questionable motives that all lead to disarray and chaos.
“That’s right. You made the reservation?” Mom turns her attention to Tyler.
I spin to Nessie again, accusation most likely written across my face. How did Mom know? I silently ask her, realizing this was in the cards all along.
“I can send you the information if you’d like. We’ll be at the Banks Resort in the Garden District of New Orleans.”
Mom sighs, lifting a hand to her chest. “The Garden District. You guys are going to have the best time.”
Dad cringes. “You guys stick together. Don’t drink anything that someone hands you on the street, and if someone offers you beads—”
“Dad!” Vanessa cuts him off with an alarmed look.
“They know about the beads, honey,” Mom says, patting his arm. “They’re smart, and everything’s going to be fine.”
Nessie steals a look at me. Can you believe him? How embarrassing!
I shrug. At least he hasn’t asked for copies of Tyler’s driver’s license or taken any pictures of his license plate like he did our prom dates.
Nessie’s gaze darts to our bags. “We should probably get going so we don’t get stuck in traffic.”
Tyler reaches for a bag, and I cringe when I realize it’s mine, knowing it weighs a ton. Dad asked me to help him carry the same bag down the stairs, afraid it would throw out his back. But Tyler lifts it easily, his biceps and forearms flexing to accommodate the weight.
“Do you guys want a cooler for the ride? I’ve got some extra ice packs. We could throw in some water and snacks in case you guys get hungry.” Dad eyes the garage, likely already picking which of the dozen coolers we own that he’s going to send with us.
“I think we’ll be okay,” I tell him.
“You guys don’t have to stop at gas stations with an electric car,” Dad objects. “I’ve heard these things can go upward of six hours.”
“We’ll be okay,” Nessie says, and though her voice is verging on condescending, Dad barely blinks. He’s still debating what to fill the cooler with. Stubbornness is a Robinson traitm written into our DNA.
Mom hugs me again. “Have fun before getting to California, okay?” Mom is our free spirit, a trait she shares with Vanessa and one I envy furiously because I don’t possess a single ounce of it. She holds my hands, giving me a reassuring smile that serves like a balm on my growing nerves.
I assumed freshman year would be the hardest—pulling off the Band-Aid and moving across the country to attend Brighton, where our parents are both alma maters. However, this year feels harder, like I’m nearing the end of summers to have the excuse to return home.
Nessie wraps her arm around Mom and me, holding us—binding us. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she has fun.”
Mom sniggers, the planes of her cheeks creasing with laugh lines that she always points out with dismay in each photo that’s ever taken of her. I love those laugh lines. They feel like a map of our childhood—blanket forts and makeovers and drinking too much pink lemonade that we always have in our fridge. “Look out for each other.” She kisses Vanessa’s forehead
